Just across from the hospital,
still inside of the red lines,
a couple blocks from the orthodox church,
that‘s where the old poet lives.
And his eyeglasses and his necktie
at the window looking down
on the young man passing by
on the fullness of the town.
Full of them good time gamblers,
full of their restless wives,
full of their midnight writers,
out on the corner on a Friday night,
out in the brightness of a Friday night.
And the big horns blow, and the pianos play.
And the music rose to the old man‘s ears.
I guess those were the olden days.
I guess those were the golden years.
‘Cause now the town is empty, empty as a mirror(?),
empty as a harbor in the barber‘s chair.
Where did the old poet go?
I asked around,
Nobody knows, oh.
Maybe I came too early,
Maybe I came too late.
I‘m waiting in the shadows of the scaffolds of the old cafe, where you told me to wait.
And I‘ve got this lingering feeling.
It‘s like I slipped between fingers of the centuries.
I know you know what I mean.
I‘ll be a good time gambler,
I‘ll be a restless wife.
I‘ll be a midnight writer, out in the corner on a Friday night.
Call me a good time gambler.
Call me a restless wife.
Call me a midnight writer.
out in the corner on a Friday night,
out in the brightness of a Friday night,
call me the brightness of a Friday night.